so-SO

[NOTE: This blog entry was begun right after Thanksgiving, 2009, but aborted until this morning when I decided to revisit it.]

It happens every Thanksgiving: the airways fill-up with reruns of sappy Christmas movies, especially on the Hallmark channel. Oh sure, there are always the network offerings whose appeal leans more toward horrific tales of life so disgustingly repugnant that they leave us viewers fearing that the only viable option is one of curling up into a fetal position in the corner of the closet, hoping the macabre doesn’t find us—you know. FOX, CNN, CNBC, MSNBC.

Talk about opposite ends of the spectrum! One end presents a picture of life in which, despite sometimes seemingly overwhelming obstacles, truth, justice and the (never mind) always come out on top and the indomitable spirit is always triumphant. The other dumps us into a morass of powerlessness and oppression. Some choice!

So, why am I such a sap for those pleasant Christmas phantasms depicting life as a never-ending rose garden with only an occasional thorn in the flesh? Yeah, I know, it’s probably not considered manly to admit to being hooked by such romantic drivel, particularly when it appears on the 12-inch set in the kitchen while baking cookies for a church reception. But that’s what happened the other night when the TV surfing settled upon a movie about a father and son and a semi-trailer sized Christmas tree, all three caught in relationships on the brink of destruction, dangling over the edge. Predictably and happily, the tree was rescued from fire and chainsaw, and at the same time, father and son and even the President of the U. S., all, ended up in relationships of peace, harmony and love.

Good grief! Everyone knows that’s not the way life is! Christmas approaches, and inevitably with it come tragic memories of Christmases past where life was anything but peaceful and harmonious: memories such as officiating at an afternoon funeral of a three-year-old who was to have been our “littlest angel” in the Christmas Eve pageant that same evening, or the way-too-many accidental deaths of teenagers, or the young woman who was murdered by her policeman husband. Jesus! If such recollections invade my Advent year after year, what must those who have really unbearable burdens to bear suffer at a time when the public façade is one of festivity? Is this, in some small measure, what its like to suffer from PTSD?

So, maybe the allure of oodles of sweet smelling stories this time of year has something to do with a desperate need to offset the “so-SO” experiences of life. Individuals, families, societies and nations know all to well the reality of being “so Shut Out.” Disease, disaster, divorce, disability, destruction due to disagreements between persons and whole societies are ever prevalent, bringing with them the gruesome “SO” phenomenon.

BLOG ABORTED

It was here that I stopped cooking this “so-SO” blog entry last November, and now it is some three months later and I am returning it to the stove. Why? No doubt, many ingredients are bubbling in the pot, some of which were added so long ago that they are lost to memory, even though their pungent aroma and acerbic flavor still infuse the air. What they are might be recalled in future posts.

But quite unexpectedly when I wasn’t paying attention, someone threw another substance into the boiling caldron. The remnant of this new ingredient is on my desk in front of me and it looks as if it could make for a very delightful dish. But you know what they say about appearances.

Actually, this new ingredient is an invitation. A former congregation has sent Polly and me a notice bidding us to attend their second three-day church homecoming reunion, an event held every decade. You’d think I would get all fuzzy inside at the prospect of a three-day festival that will include “food, fun, music, and the opportunity to experience the changes to our church.” Sounds like quite a recipe.

But this is one “dish” that will prove far too foul for me to even consider trying. It’s sort of like my wife’s aversion to greasy spoon restaurants; if she’s along, no matter how starving we may be, we keep on trucking until we find a familiar, franchised establishment.

So what do I find so tasteless about this particular fare? Oh, how shall I count the ways? Hmmmm, let’s see.

1. This was the “diner” that when I first arrived deluged me with the recipes of my predecessor, reminding me in one way or another that if I was to be of any use as the new “chef,” I would have to be as zealous for the ways they convinced him to serve up faith as he was after their inducements. As one of the dear saints there told my wife, “We’re going to turn your husband into an evangelist the way we did (predecessor’s name), to which my wife aptly responded, “Lots of luck with that.” This fervor on their part was aided by my predecessor who had moved to the next county, but who didn’t have enough to keep him busy in his new “kitchen,” because he kept coming back to the patrons of my employ and, on one occasion dropped in on me after having made his rounds in my neighborhood, to let me know how I should be doing my job. When one is god-like, one is entitled to tell other people what to do, even if that leads to “so-SO” experiences.

2. This was the “eatery” where the volunteer assistant chef (retired) continued to dine, but was not permitted to perform professional duties as he had before. I knew that because the personnel committee strictly forbade me from allowing him any access to doing things he did prior to my arrival. It didn’t help that the committee hadn’t informed the former assistant, and so, feeling “so-SO,” he blamed me for blocking his continued professional functioning. His anger at having been locked-out of the kitchen erupted in the form of anonymous letters to leaders of the diners’ association and sowing seeds of dissension in other ways. The Chairman of the Diners’ Association felt particularly aggrieved by this perceived assault on the poor old, dear assistant. So, again, both of us ended up “so-SO.”

3. This was the “dinner club” that encountered numerous problems with vandalism and drug-related trafficking in and around the property after hours. As head chef, I had been instructed by the property managers (Trustees) to solicit the aid of the police, making sure they knew we were serious about signing warrants to arrest violators who were caught. This became a rather unpleasant job responsibility in that the perpetrators were all from the very wealthy and influential families of the neighborhood. One night when I had been called out by the police around one a.m. to swear out warrants on four young adults, ages 17-21, I and the police were regaled with, “You can’t arrest us; don’t you know who our parents are!” (They were arrested.) And always after such actions were taken, I would receive calls from parents faulting our establishment, which was supposed to be “forgiving,” and in other ways blaming us for being so heartless. It was difficult to understand how these parents could be “so-SO” castigating, especially since they were able in every instance to get their precious children off without so much as a slap on the wrist. One wonders if these were the same exemplars of virtue that slashed my tires in the parking lot when I was working late one night, or called my home around one in the morning on Sunday with a string of epithets about my character and a very graphic threat on my life, a threat that was followed-up on Monday evening when a hearse arrived at my house to pick up my remains. Talk about being “so-SO.”

4. Yeah, I’m stretching the allegory of dining beyond the breaking point, and while many other illustrations abound about a “so-SO” time of life, I’ll conclude with one more. The dear saints, who didn’t succeed in convincing me that their recipes were the only ones that tasted the only way cuisine is supposed to taste, circulated a petition to have me terminated. In the chain of restaurants for which I worked at the time, that was an illegal procedure. (The UMC rules are very strict about that.) But pressure was brought to bear on the personnel committee, and in October the committee informed me that they would recommend to the chain headquarters that I be replaced when it was time for such changes in June. The remaining eight months were spent in protecting the patrons from the behind-the-scenes maneuverings so that those who were pleased with my fare would not decide to patronize other establishments. Then at the appropriate time, I would announce my decision to seek a position elsewhere, and that would be followed by a fine farewell party, and the restaurant could go on unhindered by confusion among the clientele. It was the only time I knew the “so-SO” experience of being fired.

Obviously, this is a one-sided reporting of events that were as complicated as it gets. And, in spite of the aforementioned details, many deep and lasting friendships originated in this “so-SO” period. Those friendships, however, are too significant to be based on whether or not I attend some supercilious silliness. Indeed, those friendships are of the quality that would protect me from face-to-face encounters with people and places of pain. Even Jesus knew the wisdom of pounding the dust from off your feet and moving on. And, as it turned out, the place to which I was sent became a delightful departure from the preceding four years, one in which being wounded was replaced more and more by being whole. You might say it was like being kicked upstairs.

Actually, the next place to which I went helped to restore my belief that “so-SO” experiences are not what life is meant to be. Perhaps those seemingly inane Christmas specials have a point. We are right to resist those forces that would have us reduce life to “so-SO” specters that stalk our days and nights. Our instincts are right that tell us that the ways of harmony, peace and love are what life is meant to be. So be it!